


What's Cooking?

by Mitchy



Category: NCIS: Los Angeles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 21:04:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mitchy/pseuds/Mitchy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Callen take an important first step.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's Cooking?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sanders](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanders/gifts).



The worst part of the job, Callen thought, was always the immediate aftermath. Before, there was the hunt, the tracking down, the piecing together of information. Then there was the chase, the closing in, the shootout, the arrests. But afterwards, there was always a period of time when Callen felt he was suffering from sensory overload. Sirens, uniformed cops, red and white tape, crime scene workers, photographs and endless, endless explanations that finally resulted in a stack of paperwork on his desk. Mostly, he snapped back quickly, dealing with what needed to be dealt with before he made his escape; sometimes it took a little longer.

He was standing eyeing the latest stack of folders and forms on his desk when Sam found him. He heard a faint snort of amusement from behind him before Sam spoke.

“Look, I keep telling you, Jedi mind tricks are a figment of George Lucas's imagination.”

“Never say never,” Callen responded. “Practise, you must. Succeed, you will.”

Another snort. “Even if you did vaporise the paperwork, I'm pretty sure your powers would be useless against Hetty.”

It was a valid point and Callen gave up trying to set the paperwork on fire and turned to look at his partner. “I thought you'd gone home?”

“Did. A/C's out, landlord's working on it but it'll be a while. So I figured I'd roust you out and go for a drink. Except when I get to your house, you're not home either.”

Callen shrugged. “Paperwork.” He knew Sam knew him better than that; hell they all knew him better than that, even Deeks was catching on now. One of the secret joys of his life was the knowledge that there were people who knew him well enough to see through his bullshit but let him deal with things in his own way anyway. Up to a point. Like now.

“Rough day,” Sam said, making it a statement of fact, not a question. “A man's entitled to take some time out after a day like that.”

“True,” Callen agreed. A beer sounded good but his head was full of the noise and flashes of the day still and a crowded bar, for once, didn't appeal. “I've got beer at home and my A/C works. Let's go there.”

Sam looked at him. “You don't have any furniture, G, a bar at least has somewhere to sit.”

“Ah-hah! Now that, my friend, is where you are wrong. I have seats. Really.” he added, off Sam's disbelieving look. “Actual furniture. Come and see for yourself.”

From the expression on his face, Sam still didn't believe him.

***

“Bean bags? G, bean bags are NOT furniture!”

Sam was staring down in mild horror at the two large bean bags that now graced the (still mostly empty) front room of Callen's house. Callen imagined that the bean bags were looking up at the giant ex-Seal with roughly the same expression.

“A dozen retail stores would disagree with you.” He handed over a cold bottle of beer and lightly dropped down onto one of the bags. “They're comfortable, try 'em.”

“I am not sittin' on a puce green bean bag! Where did you get them from, dumpster outside a charity shop?”

“Hey, these are designer bean bags! They were the latest in fashion.”

“When, 1973?”

“You want to sit on this one instead?”

Sam looked at the bright yellow bag on which Callen was ensconced and his expression said far more than words.

“Fine.” Muttering, Sam carefully lowered his full weight onto the green bean bag, holding his breath. In truth, Callen wasn't entirely sure it was safe so he was relieved when the bag held. The big man wriggled a bit to get comfortable.

“There you go,” Callen encouraged. “They're fine when you're down.”

“Seriously, G, where did you get these things? You have to be herded into shops at gun point so don't tell me you got them from a store.”

“I shop,” Callen protested mildly. “Just last week I bought a shirt.”

“A Hawaiian shirt so bad it made Eric cry. From a stall at Venice Beach to change your appearance while you were tailing a suspect. Doesn't count.”

“I buy food.”

“G, please. If I ever manage to get up off this thing and look in your fridge, I will see beer, left over pizza and several take out cartons that are developing new life forms.”

Callen tried to think of another example. “Right, fine. I got 'em on Ebay. I think I was the only bidder. Dude selling them even paid for the shipping.”

“There weren't any pictures, were there?” Sam said, smirking.

“....no. But don't judge a bean bag by its cover. They're comfortable, right?”

“And they probably glow in the dark. Useful at night.”

Callen left that one alone. He was sure there was a perfectly rational explanation for the eerie glow he thought he'd seen emanating from his lounge last night. A subject change was called for.

“So how long will your A/C be out?”

“Knowing my landlord, until tomorrow.”

“Scare him into working faster, like you did last time.”

“Can't,” Sam grumbled. “Hetty made me promise not to. Said she had better things to do than listen to grown landlord's cry. I blame you.”

“Me?”

“Yeh, with your 35 apartments in three months thing. Now she's got zero tolerance for dealing with anyone else's housing problems.”

“It was 6 apartments,” Callen corrected. “But point taken.” Then, casually. “You can stay here tonight if you want.”

“You don't have any beds, G,” Sam pointed out. “And I am not sleeping on a frickin' bean bag.”

“I have a spare sleeping mat. C'mon, you're an ex-SEAL, a sleeping mat is practically luxury accommodation.”

“You know the nice thing about not being a SEAL any more? I don't have to sleep on the floor on a regular basis” Sam informed him.

“Would you rather swelter in 90 degree heat in your bed in your apartment?” Callen countered. There was a faint growl in reply. “I'll take that as a “No”.”

“Fine. Thank you. But I'm not eating cold pizza.”

“Take out menus are on the fridge door,” Callen said, helpfully. “You choose.”

“No, no take out. I'm going to cook.”

Callen blinked. “You are? I thought you wanted to chill out?”

“Cooking is relaxing, G. Some people do it for a hobby. Steak does not take long to grill and we can have a salad.”

“I don't have steak or salad in the house.”

“I know. I'll go to the store. While I'm out, you can remove the alien lifeforms in your fridge, and wipe down the counters.”

It was worth doing the chores, Callen thought, just for the spectacle that was a 6'1” ex-Navy Seal trying to climb off a lime green bean bag.

***

Callen had to concede that Sam knew how to grill a steak. He wasn't sure why it involved using every utensil he possessed but was profoundly thankful he didn't own much cutlery. He let Sam boss him around in the kitchen, enjoying working with him in the unusual setting. Like everything else he did, Sam cooked with a laser like focus, pausing only to bark orders for this seasoning, and that spice. All of which he'd had to buy because his investigation of the kitchen had left him speechless; another image Callen planned to store and enjoy at leisure.

They worked well together – no surprise there really – but there was an intimacy to this that Callen hadn't experienced before. So smooth was their maneuvering around the kitchen, it was almost like a waltz.

“Dosey-doe,” Callen murmured as he and Sam switched places without a word needing to be said.

“Pardon?” Sam paused from the careful brushing of sauce onto steak to look at G askance.

“Nothin',” Callen told him but he thought he saw a flicker of a smile that suggested the big man knew exactly what he'd meant.

They ate at the (newly clean) kitchen table and it was delicious. As Callen did full justice to the steak, he caught Sam looking at him with a pleased smile on his face.

“What?”

“Nothing, it's just...well. Makes a nice change from a burger at the local bar, y'know? And I don't often get to cook for someone else.”

“Where'd you learn to cook anyway?”

“My Mom taught me the basics, she was a pretty decent cook,” Sam admitted, softly. He almost never mentioned his parents and Callen didn't ask any further but let the big man elaborate if he wanted to. “We didn't talk much, or touch much, but she gave me that. The rest I picked up after I got out of the Navy.”

“Well you can cook for me any time,” Callen told him. “I won't mind.”

“I'd like that,” Sam said and there was a sudden tingle of electricity in the air, that made Callen break out in goosebumps. It was as though they'd been moving towards something without realising and now it was there in plain sight. Callen nervously gulped his beer and then spoke, striving to sound casual.

“I dug out my spare sleeping mat while you were out. Set it up in the bedroom.” Next to his.

“I saw.” And hadn't objected.

Sam gave Callen a lazy smile that, for no apparent reason, made Callen's knees go weak. It was a smile that promised the after dinner entertainment would match the quality of the steak.

“So that just leaves one question, I guess,” Callen said, aware he was smiling the same way.

“What's that?”

“What are you going to cook for breakfast?”


End file.
